


"long since resolved"

by sicklyscribe



Series: Brothers [4]
Category: The Originals (TV), The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Eleventh-Century Sketchbooks That Will Make You Want to Cry, I needed them to Talk About it when it wasn't a Power Play against Finn, Missing Scene, Multi, amy is running out of quotes from the show for title material
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:22:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24549070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sicklyscribe/pseuds/sicklyscribe
Summary: Set in the latter half of season two, soon after the wedding. Elijah sneaks into the compound searching for an image that will both comfort and condemn.
Relationships: Elijah Mikaelson & Klaus Mikaelson, Elijah Mikaelson/Tatia, Klaus Mikaelson/Tatia
Series: Brothers [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1131038
Kudos: 15





	"long since resolved"

Elijah thought he had been careful. Niklaus’ ears really were that much more keen, just keen enough to hear the rustle of leather and paper and shoes on a library carpet. 

His brother was framed in the light of the hallway, suddenly, and just as quickly as his feet had carried him, his brow quirked at a supernatural speed to see him standing there, parchment in hand. 

Klaus made to speak, but something stopped his mouth. Elijah could not move, could not breathe, in the scramble to find some excuse that would not require an ounce of the truth. 

“I wanted to show Marcel a – the – that text, about…” 

Klaus took several steps forward as Elijah spoke, slowly, somewhere between stalking and soothing in his gait. “About…?” 

His brother’s eyes scanned the table, the animal skins near to dust in age and the careful archival binding he himself had compelled an expert to perform. These were not texts. These were not for Marcel. Elijah watched the confusion bloom in Klaus’ face and felt as though the weakness he felt, heavy and ugly and tight, was filling the room and choking his vestigial breath. 

“What could Marcel _possibly_ want with…” Klaus reached and brushed his fingers over the air atop a drawing of Rebekah, young and smiling and small and human. “With any of this?” 

Klaus looked back up to Elijah, and realized there was _anguish_ in his eyes. “Elijah?” 

Elijah smoothed his hair and smoothed his slacks. Smoothed his hair again. “I know – I know you drew her. Often. And I wanted… I didn’t want to ask. I couldn’t. Ask you.” 

Klaus saw faces of his family on the table, and knew that the pages beneath would hold sketches of brooks and livestock and neighbors and not a single one would depict a woman with wild brown hair, and fire-brown eyes, and a mouth that cut and kissed like no other. He nearly fell into the chair beside him, staring over Elijah’s shoulder at memories he had not wanted to archive. 

He did not want to speak. He did not want to give this _ancient_ grief a voice. But Klaus knew it was not so ancient now, for either of them. “I burnt them.” 

Elijah’s jaw fought not to tremble. “Why?” 

“Every time I looked at them, all I could see was the fear in her eyes on that last day, when she saw… And you…” Klaus swallowed the rest, revising the well-trod events with what must have really happened. 

The room filled with a breathy sob. “I thought after the binding ritual, she would see that I was still myself. It was –” a bitter smile cracked between his words – “it was the first thing I was going to do when it was over.” 

Elijah slid to the floor, and neither of them could see the other’s face, and neither wanted to. “I’m so _sorry_ , Niklaus.” 

“I know.” 

Paper rustled on the table, and Elijah kept his eyes on the space beneath the table for what could have been minutes or hours watching Klaus’ foot as it tapped restlessly against the floor. Rebekah had gotten him those pajamas for Christmas. Elijah had helped chain Klaus’ hands and feet to that cross and watched while he was cursed using the blood of the girl they both loved. Would Esther have been able to do it without killing Tatia? If Elijah hadn’t brought her to his mother, would Klaus have never been shackled? Would he have been able to keep them _both_ safe – 

“Brother – Elijah, Elijah!” Klaus was before him, blurry and unformed against the lens of tears that would not, could not stop now for the world. “Brother…” Klaus’ hand was trembling beside his face, half-clawed, and Elijah sensed it more than saw it and in the same instinctual way he gripped his brother’s wrist so that he could feel that Klaus was still alive, in a way, and with him, in a way, and free. 

Klaus’ other hand fell to his shoulder, gripped it tight and pulled Elijah forward as he leaned in to not so much offer as demand his shoulder be used as a pillow. Only then did a tear or two escape from him as well. 

“I’m a coward,” Elijah whispered into Klaus’ shirt. “You cannot possibly forgive this.” 

Klaus sighed and swallowed against his sadness and his total, yawning helplessness in the so-foreign situation where _Elijah_ needed comforting that only he could provide. “But I do. You do. I mean – I might not be able to forgive it, except.” 

“Family?” Elijah scoffed. “You have begrudged me far more for far less, brother.” 

“You’ve forgiven far more from me when I was far further from any kind of deserving, brother. And you are. Deserving.” He squeezed the shoulder he still gripped, rough and real and he hoped it would do something to ground him. “ _Coward_ or no.” 

Elijah pulled back from their embrace, eyes red and cheeks wet and totally disbelieving. “ _I’m so sorry.”_

_“_ Christ, Elijah, I know it. I can’t say,” his voice fell to a whisper, “that I would not have done the same.” 

Both of them knew the omitted confession there, the acknowledgement that Klaus _had_ nearly done the same, after killing their mother. But Elijah felt more rage now in the fact that she had not _stayed_ dead, and could not muster that familiar judgement for Niklaus now. 

Klaus leaned back on his heels and stood, holding out a hand to help his brother up. Elijah sniffled. He wiped his face with a kerchief quickly ( _vampirically_ quickly) before taking the offered hand. 

A baby wailed three stories above their heads, but both were attuned to the sound by now and no brick or mortar in this home could stop them noticing. “’S my turn,” Klaus said awkwardly, proudly, and Elijah relaxed into the wonder at his brother being a father to such a precious, tiny, new, beautiful girl. This feeling was True North to him now. 

Klaus licked his lips, scanned the floor and the ceiling. 

“Don’t keep my niece waiting,” Elijah found himself smiling with another unavoidable sniffle. “I’ll clean up the mess I’ve made.” 

Klaus nodded, and there was something to it that was strange and knowing, but he was gone as quickly as he came. Elijah turned to the mausoleum of humanity on display before him.

On the desk, a yellow legal pad laid amongst the art from a millennium ago. A woman’s face was sketched in blue pen, smiling over her shoulder. Flower petals in her unruly hair. Eyes that were too enchanting, even in a portrait, to be believed as real. Elijah had seen that same face several times since, but it was never the _same_. The women who later wore that magic-steeped smile had never wielded it quite the way that Tatia had; the doppelgänger descendants that had been born from her ornery, observant babe. Klaus’s pen knew the difference. 

Elijah traced his fingers over the lines, stopping when he realized that the deeper shadows had not yet dried. Hope’s crying had calmed now, and Elijah longed to kiss her goodnight, but he knew when he had decided to leave the compound that he would miss these precious moments with his niece. And he did not know how to thank Niklaus for this. 

When the ink set, Elijah folded the unmarked edges back so not to crease her face. He grabbed a book from the other side of the library – some poetry that Rebekah loved and Klaus loathed – and pressed the drawing between the pages to keep it safe before tucking the sonnets into his suit pocket and stealing out into the bright New Orleans night. 

**Author's Note:**

> (if you liked this fic I'd love it if you could spend a few extra minutes today looking up ways that you can help support human rights and anti-racism wherever you are in the world. Nothing to do with Mikaelsons, I know, but this is the world we're in now. Love y'all.)
> 
> this work is also posted [here](https://sicklyscribe.tumblr.com/post/616886445670612992/i-thought-i-wanted-this-scene-to-be-with-cami-or).


End file.
